The Beauty Of Storms
by ShadowConnors
Summary: Thunderstorms trigger bad memories for John, so Sherlock does everything he can to make him feel better. Cute little one shot. :D


Thunder boomed as lightning flashed across the sky. The news hadn't reported any chances of rain, but knowing the unpredictable weather in their area, Sherlock had prepared for it anyway. His violin had been placed neatly on his chair. He waited patiently, skimming through a book he'd read thousands of times. A mug sat on the small table, readily available for hot coffee when John got home. Sherlock knew he would need it, so the coffee was already brewing.

Though he knew John might take a while to get home due to the rain that was sure to begin falling any second, Sherlock sat patiently on the couch, moving only to turn the worn page of his book. The silence of the flat, interrupted only by the rumbling thunder outside, was quite calming to the young detective, whose mind typically rattled on with thought after thought. Eventually, the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs caught Sherlock's attention. He glanced up at the door, anticipating John's arrival.

John opened the door, his coat wet with the beginning of the storm. He seemed nervous and out of breath. Sherlock stood up and helped him remove his coat, then walked to the kitchen. He grabbed the pot of coffee and poured a cup, still remaining silent. When he returned to the living room, John sat on the couch, tapping his fingers rapidly against his leg. Sherlock placed the mug of hot coffee in his hands, watching John stare into the swirling chocolate colored liquid. He lifted the cup slowly to his lips and took a sip. Sherlock noticed his hand shaking more than usual, and glanced out the window at the storm that brewed just outside its protective glass.

Ensuring that John drank his coffee was the first step in the process of calming him down. It'd become quite clear to Sherlock during their time living together that thunderstorms were the youthful doctor's least favorite thing. In fact, the very sound of thunder terrified him nearly to tears. It seemed that the sounds and lights of a thunderstorm reminded the former soldier to much of his time spent on the battlefield. Remembering this, Sherlock picked his violin up and positioned it just so. His bow touched the strings slightly. John looked up.

"Sh-sherlock… What are you doing? What's with the violin? Do we have a case?" John asked slowly, as he had during every thunderstorm that'd happened in the past few months.

Sherlock ignored the questions, instead playing a piece he'd written specially for John. He kept that fact secret, but hoped secretly that John would notice the way the notes sang his name. Sherlock kept his eyes on John as his bow danced across the strings of the instrument in his hand. The skilled violinist had only worked out so much of his composition, and at the rate this was going, he would have to start the piece over from the beginning. He longed to know John's thoughts, but the fair skinned man spoke not a word.

John glanced out the window, noticing the lights flashing against the dark canvas of the sky. It was brilliant, really, the way everything seemed so calm and picturesque. He found it even more astounding that the serenity of the storm brought his deepest fears to the surface. Nearly in tears, John reached up and pulled the long string that closed the blinds. Sherlock stopped playing for a moment, looking him directly in the eyes. John found it hard to make direct eye contact with the detective. His eyes were too sharp, too piercing. There was a beautiful hush between them as Sherlock begged for John to calm down with only his eyes. The care and desire for him to feel better showed on his entire face, making him seem almost human to John.

"Sher—" John began, his voice catching in his throat.

"Sh. Not a word." Sherlock whispered, sitting himself beside John and continuing to play.

Note after note, John felt himself losing the anxieties that'd begun manifesting in his head. They carried him far off to a place of comfort. He found himself thinking instead about how every note the genius played seemed to call out Sherlock's name. Absentmindedly, he cuddled close to Sherlock, taking in his radiant warmth and closing his eyes. The song faded away and Sherlock set his violin aside, wrapping his arms around John.

"Hush little Hamish, don't say a word…" he sang softly, closing his eyes.


End file.
